Women's Shoes
by Backroads
Summary: What kind of man sells women's shoes in Beverly Hills? ChloeMorris


Some doctor or another, whether it was a semi-mad psychiatrist or just a babbling freak with a fetish for all that New Age-y medicine, had said something about the need for physical contact. All humans required this for healthy development or whatever. The average person needed to be hugged at least three times a day, or at least have some physical human contact, like even just a touch, a little more than three. Chloe didn't really know. She had heard those little factoids in passing, thought them mildly interesting, and had tucked them away to some safe corner of her brain from where their information would never be recalled. 

Whatever were the magic numbers, she didn't remember. It wasn't like she was one of those anti-social freaks living in a permanent invisible bubble having a conniption if you borrowed her pen using a hand into which you had coughed. So what if she were the local weirdo of CTU? As long as you were liked, those little infamies didn't really matter, were actually kind of fun. So, no, she wasn't against the touching, not in the least—as long as it were normal and friendly and not the unwelcome attention of whatever sleazebag was lurking around that day.

Physical contact could be comforting. Maybe that was what those doctors were talking about.

Sometimes it was freaking crazy the kinds of things that could wind up as comforting.

It wasn't like Morris was trying anything. As much as she hated to, she had to give him that much; like one gold star sticker in a field of black demerits, it wasn't going to do a lot of dangerous good. He had just one hand on her back, a familiar touch that had often done so much more.

Chloe was a little surprised at that; you didn't go through all the trouble of hating someone to have them do something kind. You just didn't. The whole idea of hatred was the blatant knowledge that nothing good could come of the subject.

Well, maybe it wasn't that she hated him… it was a little hard to hate anyone at the moment, even those upon the list of persons-who-must-be-hated-above-all-else. It took far too much energy—she could feel her weakness increasing with every little thing she felt.

What, exactly, was she supposed to be feeling? A short walk with Morris, and all her thoughts had seemed to focus on the science of human contact. There was a little emotion there, if she didn't think too strongly about it. Something distant, something cold and warm all at the same time. It was almost safe.

But she still held the photograph, maybe a little too tightly, against her chest. Damn. Now she had to think about that. A sudden, random awareness doing nothing but stabbing yet another knife into her heart. She flinched, her body contracting enough to force another sob from her throat. Morris' fingers left her back for only a portion of a second before quickly returning, like metal to a magnet.

"We can find a place to sit down, if you want." The British accent was grating. But maybe he was sincere. It wasn't like he had ever been mean or anything.

It was like a joke. Morris. Mean. Ha ha.

She wasn't sure if she shook her head or nodded. She didn't care, though if the choice of her own bed had been offered, she would have gratefully accepted that and thrown herself in for an enchanted Sleeping Beauty night of a freaking century. The fairy tale princesses always had it easy. Get hit with a curse, get kidnapped by a dragon, get rescued in the end. What pain did they ever feel?

"Chloe, I think you should sit down."

Her station had a chair. But they had gone from there, the idiot.

Why had she even called him? Like Morris O'Brian was needed?

Yeah, well, he had proved himself sort of useful.

His hand moved to her shoulder as he lowered her, like a baby, into a chair. She gazed dizzily around, hardly recognizing the place. Somewhere in CTU, she didn't really care. "Here you go. Just take a few deep breaths."

What, no stupid pet names? She opened her mouth still. The air was surprisingly fresh, and she accepted it gratefully before falling forward, almost to her knees. She still clutched the photo.

Why, why, why? The same three questions that had been plaguing her for the past twelve hours. Or were they only one question? Maybe if she had broken through the glass instead of standing there like a zombie she wouldn't be asking those questions or that question. Maybe everything would have been different, and she wouldn't be here right now with a man who made his living selling footwear to Beverly Hills tramps.

Of course she wouldn't. She would be dead. They all would be dead. And later on, somebody would have come along, slipped on the broken glass, slashed an artery or something equally gruesome, and be dead as well. One big mess for the custodial staff. And _he_ wouldn't have wanted any of that. He would have started one hell of an argument over that. She could hear it in her mind already. He wasn't as belligerent as her, but there would have been an argument.

Like an argument would bring him back. Like it would have made her realize everything beforehand. Made him say something. Made her say something. The photo might have been something more.

What had Bill been thinking, giving this to her? How was it supposed to make her feel any better?

Then they came, the tears, the first true crying of that day; good crying, some might say. The kind of emotional rush that ran headlong into hysterics. She was loud, she was pathetic, and she was going to be a complete mess. Like she cared. This cry was everything.

She was only vaguely aware of Morris squeezing her hand the whole while.

When she was through, she leaned back against the share, the last vibrations of sobs in her throat and nose. She shoved a fist across her eyes, smearing tears with mascara.

"Finished?" Morris whispered.

She nodded weakly. Sure. Whatever. Did that word not imply she was now officially hunky-dory? She didn't feel finished. She felt empty, or maybe more like a water tank full of tears too thick to cry. A buzzing fog had fallen over her brain.

"Why are you here, Morris?" She could barely hear her own voice.

She didn't look at him, but she could feel his eyes on her, not staring, just watching her. "I believe you were the one that made the call, Chloe." He sighed. "I take it you now expect me to go?"

She shrugged. "You can do whatever you want. We're done here."

He frowned, a strange crease in his face. "Are you going to be all right?"

"No."

He wasn't sitting. He was kneeling next to her chair like a dog.

She wiped away more tears and sighed. "Morris," she began, "Have you ever lost anyone? That you cared about?"

He shook his head.

The hall, the room, wherever he dragged her… it was silent, save for the sound of her own breathing. Even Morris made no sound. She wanted to stand up, but not enough to try; she didn't know if she could stand up. "Did you have any trouble getting here?"

"The curfew made things a lot easier. Zero traffic."

"Well, you made good time."

"Beverly Hills isn't that far." He grunted as he switched to his other knee. "But I had to come. Not that you woke me at the most opportune time."

A tiny smile worked its way into her face. At least she had found one way to bother him. "And you think the rest of us have been sleeping soundly?"

"That isn't fair."

Chloe pulled her knees into her chest as a burst of vague pain hit her. She felt like a child again, curled up in a chair far too big. The photo moved to her hand, tightly; she didn't want to lose it. "Thanks for coming."

"You're welcome."

"Seen a lot of pretty girls here, yet?" That wasn't supposed to come out. In fact, she hadn't even been thinking it. But she almost liked the way it tasted. Revenge.

His frown deepened. "I believe I answered that question earlier."

Guess all that snide humor was gone. "I saw you."

His eyes locked with hers. "And what are we talking about now? I don't think you need or even want to be talking about anything like that right now."

"Who are you to tell me what I should be talking about?" She let her feet fall back to the floor. She almost kicked Morris as she did so. "You, a pathetic man who couldn't find enough pleasure or whatever here. Not enough action."

"What are you talking about now?"

"You. You sell women's shoes now. In Beverly Hills, of all places. And women's shoes. Not men's shoes, not children's. Women's. I think that kind of career speaks for itself, don't you?"

She expected a good backbite, wanted one, but he didn't say a single word. No. He could not do that. He was supposed to fire back, give her something quality at which to scream. She needed to scream. Scream and scream and maybe break something. The tears were over for the time being. It was time to scream.

He smiled. She watched carefully. She had used to be so good at reading him. This smile… it was warm, but a little sad. "Are you baiting me?"

"No. Are you still seeing Gina?"

"Go ahead and hate me."

Fine, then. She would. It was all that was left to do in this stupid world. "Look at yourself, Morris. I once thought you were smarter than that. Smarter than…" Her brain lost itself in the fog. She clenched her heart down as her mind slipped, preparing herself against whatever pain would come floating up next. "Smarter than…"

"Selling women's shoes?" he ventured.

That dang British. "I was just thinking. Did you meet a lot of Cinderellas that way? No more Gina? Or maybe you just couldn't handle the work here." She answered that one herself. If he wasn't the genius he was she wouldn't have called him in.

"It was hard to be here with you. You didn't make it easy, afterwards." So calm. Almost an apology.

Not the answer she wanted. Not the explosion. "Why shoes, Morris? Of everything? Besides the fact that they were women's shoes."

He gave a mild shrug and lowered his hands to his knee. "You see a lot of people in that business. I like people."

"I know you like people. I saw that a few hours ago. Once again."

She was so tired. If he would just scream, and let her scream back… maybe that would summon some energy. Maybe it would change the past. If he would do something besides sit beside her and realize it wasn't helping her at all…

At least some of it burst out. An utter threat to her remaining strength, but it came out like molten lava. "You make me sick! What are you even doing here? Your task is over, so get out of here!" She let the photograph fall to her lap and wrapped her arms around herself. It hadn't been much of a scream. It hadn't made her feel all that better.

And Morris hadn't budged an inch.

She stared down at him.

"You want a fight, don't you?" he said softly. "You want me to get mad at you."

She didn't reply.

"I can't do that right now. I can't do that. You know that's not me. I'm truly sorry."

She hiccupped as a few more tears snuck their ways out. He was right. He didn't get angry. Curse all peacemakers.

His hand moved back to her shoulder, just a light touch. Would that odd doctor count that for something? "Can I get you anything? A glass of water, perhaps?"

Water. That would be all right. She nodded.

He stood up, hand leaving her shoulder.

She gave a small cry as he did. If went for the water, she would be alone.

"There's a cooler just a few feet away. I'll be right back. You can even watch me, if you want. I'll get you some water, and you can tell me everything, if you want."

If someone were close… she nodded again. She knew she would scream if she were alone.

He was standing now, but he didn't move, not yet. "I never slept with Gina. Ever."

Like she cared about that now. That was all in the past. "You never said anything before."

"I'm saying it now. Not like it matters."

He walked off. She could hear this footsteps echo until they stopped. There was the tinkling sound of water trickling into a cheap plastic cup. More footsteps, and he was back, physically placing the cup in her hand. "Do you want to talk about today?"

Why not? She nodded. "Let me… let me just finish the water."

"All right."

She took a sip. Good and cold.

"I lied earlier." Morris' voice was now only calm on the surface. Beneath that façade was something missing.

"Hmm?"

"You asked if I ever lost anyone I cared about."

She lowered the cup to watch him.

"The truth is I have." His voice seemed to take over the entire room, though it was barely over a whisper. "I lost someone I loved."

_**The End.**_


End file.
